


5 Minutes to Midnight

by whilewilde



Category: Ashes to Ashes (UK TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gene says 2020 sucked arse, Modern AU, Pining, Sad Ending, Self-Reflection, sorry - Freeform, yes Alex is still dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:08:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29094774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whilewilde/pseuds/whilewilde
Summary: Gene always hated New Years.
Relationships: Alex Drake/Gene Hunt
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	5 Minutes to Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this is just a quick one shot to get back into the swing of things! I wrote it on New Years originally but chose not to publish until now. Enjoy!

5 minutes to midnight. 5 minutes until 2021, and Gene was on the night shift. 

Gene had skipped the pub this year. Being thrown unexpectedly from the 80s to whatever the hell was this year gave him enough of a headache. Frankly, he would be happy enough with a bottle of scotch and Blackadder repeats on the telly.

Yes, he thinks, British comedy was better back when they said what they liked and no one was offended at all. Throwing his head back and taking another swig, Gene tried to fight his mind from slipping back into its favourite hovel of depression.

Recently, Gene’s office had become akin to a living room, with a telly whacked on the wall and a sofa pushed against the far end. That had earned him a front cover on The Sun about bent coppers bleeding the taxpayer dry, and Gene was so proud of that achievement that he had permanently framed in his office, so it was the first thing anyone noticed when they entered. 

The great Gene Genie, had — so far, touch wood — survived COVID, proclaimed that voting for Keir Starmer was some ‘leftie bollocks’ and had angrily emailed the BBC a total of 5 times because they put a content warning on The League of Gentlemen. In shorter terms, Gene had become an even grumpier bastard than before.

What was before, though?

Gene grunted, acknowledging that he would have to drink much faster to stop the impending rush of memories. When he stopped was when he saw Alex.

He swore sometimes that she was here, just fuzzy like a TV holding onto pictures from a failing aerial, and completely out of reach. At first, she didn’t say anything; she was just visions, but Gene thought it was best not to mention it to the team lest he visited a therapist for the second time that year.

It was on the third or fourth appearance that she became clearer, so vivid that Gene was sure he was experiencing the long awaited effects of alcohol poisoning or the impending heart attack he had always feared. There Alex was, in that white leather biker jacket, a red top and jeans, high heels just giving her enough to be taller than Gene. She always had to be better in some way, he supposed.

There she was now, with 4 minutes until midnight, dressed the same, her hair curled and not a hair out of place. She was looking at him with a mixture of sympathy and disgust, which summed up how she looked at him most of the time when they worked together.

“Gene, are you okay?” She asked softly, crouching down so she was level with him whilst he was sitting on the sofa.

“Fuckin’ hell! Every time you get more real. I swear you’re going to kill me, Bols!” Gene exclaimed, nearly jumping out of his skin when she spoke.

He heard her as clear as day. No longer was it like the receiving end of a telephone call with dodgy signal. Quite crystal clear.

“I’ll tell you something, this job must be getting to me.” Gene mumbled, rubbing his eyes, hoping that Alex would disappear, to no avail.

It wasn’t that Gene didn’t want to see his Alex. Far from it. The apparitions— or whatever they were — were cruel, and reminded him that he was constantly haunted by the eternal question of if he did the right thing. So, that’s why he sat in his office drowning himself in single malts, and why he simply forgot to look after himself.

Things like whether your suit is ironed seem to become irrelevant when you start seeing old ghosts, and realise that you want nothing more than for them to give up the cruel game and be there. Really be there.

“What would you say if one of your friends came to you and said — guv, I keep seeing this woman walking around who looks suspiciously like the photo on your desk?” Alex asked, smiling kindly.

“I just keep that photo in case I need to frame you for a crime, Bols. Besides, I’d say they’re a bit messed up in the nut. Need a holiday to Brighton or wherever people go in these horrific times.” Gene replied coldly, refusing to play games with the creation of his own mind.

He could joke all he wanted, but deep down they both knew that he was still hurt. The tough guy persona was hardly a front (for that to be entirely fake must have been exhausting, he really was just slightly insufferable) but when it came to Alex that was his weak point.

“Y’know, you probably have me pegged as a soft bastard, and I don’t think you’re wrong-“ Gene paused thoughtfully, taking another swig “I’ve done 37 Christmases without you. I’ve counted. You were the last person to get me a Christmas present, from beyond the grave at that. You should’ve seen the look on my face!”

It was the first Christmas without Alex that a wounded Gene would be rummaging through his cupboards, looking for a spare bottle of anything with a higher alcohol volume than 20%, when he would find it. It was a Polaroid of the two of them, taken by Chris at Luigi’s, once upon a time, when they were a unit. They looked happy too, both of them grinning at the camera, Gene’s arm protectively round Alex’s waist as they left no space between them.

Attached to the Polaroid was a copy of Only You by Yazoo on cassette, the final kick in the teeth for someone he had let go. There had been so many — and there would be many more, but Alex’s always dug a little deeper. She knew him so well that one without the other was like one shoe without the other.

That Christmas was the most painful, with each year becoming another day to add to the tally of time spent alone, Turkey shunned for a curry and five pints of lager, and flinging the radio out of the window if he heard a Christmas song. ‘Have a holly jolly bloody Christmas indeed’ he would grumble, settling for repeats of some outdated police show on ITV.

“Yeah, well, I hope you kept that cassette safe.” Alex added, raising her eyebrows when Gene looked startled.

“I bloody well did! I could’ve sold it for a tidy amount as well, since kids are getting back into all that 80s bollocks. You know they call it vintage, Bols? Am I fucking vintage to you?” Gene asked, screwing the cap back onto his bottle.

Alex’s laugh filled the room, and Gene was surprised to see her genuinely happy to be with her old friend. The sight first brought warmth to Gene’s heart, before returning to prick it once more as the crushing realisation that she wasn’t real dawned on him once again.

“I remember your laugh, you know.” Gene mumbled, raising his eyes briefly to the clock on the opposite wall, wondering why 5 minutes had yet to pass.

“Well I should hope so, it’s only been three decades after all.”

Silence descended upon the office as Gene became transfixed on the clock. He just had to make it past this one minute, and everything would be fine. He knew that the state of the world wouldn’t magically fix itself, or that it wouldn’t bring Alex back, but it meant that he proved to himself that he could get through it all.

“I should be going soon, guv.” Alex announced, a sad smile on her face as the two knew it was possibly the last time that they would see each other.

“You know what I want to say, don’t you? Whatever up here is ‘orrible and I’m sure you’re the reason.” Gene was practically begging for an answer in the affirmative, knowing that having to say how he felt would practically destroy him.

“I know. I know, Gene.” With that, Alex reached out and placed her hand on Gene’s knee.

The touch was light enough, hardly enough pressure to leave a crease, but Gene still felt it. He was sure of it. In that swift movement, hundreds of pictures rushed through Gene’s head. Three years of memories, some unpleasant and bitter, taking their sweet time at their last shot at a replay.

The first time they had met and had gotten off to a prickly start, all the times Alex had pushed Gene to be a better copper, the drinks and dinners after work where neither said what they really felt. The dancing in the flat to that bloody song, and the moment when Alex walked away for the final time.

As soon as it all had appeared, it was gone. Gene threw his hands forward in desperation to reach out and touch her, eyes closed so as to stop the tears from flowing. His hands grasped onto that familiar leather bow without an owner, and he pulled it to his chest, burying his head in the material, briefly.

The almost mute ticking of the clock pulled him from his distressed state, causing him to raise his head and look at its face once more. 5 minutes past midnight, and Gene was alone once more, holding one of the last reminders of his former friend and the only woman who wanted to stick around forever.

Gene briefly unscrewed the cap on his bottle of whiskey once more, the jacket laying across his lap. 

“Happy New Year, Bols.” Gene mumbled, raising his bottle to an empty room, and taking a swig.

Secretly, he wondered how the jacket was real if Alex wasn’t, but he knew better than to ask himself. Drake was the DI who seemingly found a way to stick to his side, no matter what. 


End file.
